


Waltz

by Multifandom_Freak_16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, Lost Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_Freak_16/pseuds/Multifandom_Freak_16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the man he loves married and moved out, Sherlock is alone once again. The ache becomes too much to bear and to cope he turns back to heroin. Meanwhile John is unaware of his best friend's plight, busy with his new life and new wife. Then both of their lives change during a random visit to 221B to check on the infuriating detective that John had fallen for while living with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **FEELS WARNING**  
> Also I'm posting from my phone due to lack of wifi for my laptop and my phone seems to hate to keep indents so I'll be fixing all the indent-less paragraphs and putting them proper as soon as I have wifi. It bothers me that my paragraphs aren't in proper form more than it bugs you guys, I promise you that. I'm also new to writing fanfiction so please don't be too harsh on me. Any constructive criticism/suggestions are welcome. Insults are not. Thanks. :)

He lay on the couch, dropping the newly emptied syringe into the small bin with the other empty syringes. He then lit a cigarette and took a good drag before exhaling slowly. A playlist of classical composers played through the speakers across the room. When Sherlock quit both needle and tobacco, he had known that it would not be for always, but even he hadn't foreseen that he would return to the familiar addictions so soon. Yet here he was, calmly chain smoking while the last bit of that purchase spread through him. Luckily he had bought more earlier that day, so he had that entire untouched bit sitting with syringes swiped from Molly's lab inside of a tin under his couch. He would probably wait to break into that tomorrow.

He leaned his head back on the arm of the couch and closed his eyes as the high took hold. He took another drag and twitched his toes along with the violin solo. He hadn't played his own violin since the wedding. John's wedding. John. It always came back to John. Dear, dull, spectacular, nagging, beautiful John. But no longer his John. Now he was Mary's dear, dull, spectacular, nagging, beautiful John. Because he had been too slow to return, too slow to stop Moriarty and avoid going away in the first place.

After much contemplating after the incident at the pool, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that the feeling he had had for John all along was love. The usually cold and detached consulting detective was in love with his blogger. This certainly was new to Sherlock, being in love. Perhaps if he had had more experience with the thing he could've won John. But instead John found Mary in his absence and got engaged. And instead of disrupting things with his confession, Sherlock helped with his best friend's wedding for the sake of his happiness instead of Sherlock's own. He even played the waltz he had composed for John at his and Mary's wedding instead of at Sherlock's and John's as it was originally intended.

He took another long hit before snuffing the butt on the side of the trash bin and dropping it in amongst the used syringes. He still loved John. But now John was gone. He hadn't been back to 221B since before the wedding. He hadn't even called or text or anything. Sherlock lit another cigarette, noticing that the pack had only a few left in it. Enough for another hour, maybe two if he smoked them at intervals. He shrugged and took a big hit. No, he hadn't heard from John since the wedding. He had left early and returned to a silent, empty flat. He went to bed and woke up the next afternoon to a silent, empty flat. Where John normally would be making tea in the kitchen or sitting in his armchair with his laptop and a cuppa and berating Sherlock for sleeping in so late, emptiness. He lasted a week of more tears than he had ever allowed himself in his entire life and a whole carton of cigarettes before relapsing to heroin in attempt to dull the ache and loneliness. The only times he had left the flat since the wedding was for deals, popping in on Molly to swipe boxes of syringes when she wasn't paying attention, and cigarettes.

But the drug didn't dull the pain. Not even sleep curbed it. He had ceased use of his mind palace because everything in it reminded him of John in some way. He had begun to ignore the entire space in which John's armchair sat empty. He had hung a sheet of wallpaper over the door to John's room. The logical thing would be to rid himself of everything John, but he couldn't bring himself to. It was all he had left now that John himself had made his exit. And besides, nothing about Sherlock's life was logical anymore so what would be the point? He was injecting himself with potentially lethal chemicals; he was smoking cancerous sticks of paper, tobacco, and more chemicals; he had stopped working on cases; he was back to barely eating; he was in love with his married best friend who obviously didn't feel the same. What was one more illogical thing? he wondered while taking another drag then putting it out in the bin.

It was one tear as John kept swimming around in his head. Then another. Then Sherlock was on his side in a ball, sobbing into his knees and hugging his long legs. There he remained until a soft knock on the door.

"Sherlock, dear, I've made more than I can eat again, do you want the extra? It's pasta," Mrs. Hudson's voice floated through the door.

"I've told you no all week, Mrs. Hudson, and the answer tonight is still no," Sherlock answered, making his voice steady and clear.

"I'll leave it out here for the night, just in case you change your mind, love," she said. "Will you at least unlock the door so I can come in?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson. Now isn't the time," he told her. He heard her shuffle down the stairs, cursing her hip and mumbling about it never being the time. A part of him couldn't help but feel grateful despite the rest of him. It really was a struggle for the kind old landlady to get up and down the stairs with her bad hip, especially to try to bring her cold, depressed, and often enraged tenant dinner. Maybe he would eat it, or at least dump it in the trash and sit the empty dish back outside the door so she'd think he ate it. Sherlock got up and unlocked the door, picking up the dish then locking it back up. It took him awhile to locate a container with a lid, which he washed out and put the pasta in for later then left it in the fridge. He put the dish back outside the door and locked up before returning to the couch. He sat and lit another cigarette. He checked his phone, hoping as always that "missed call: John" would be flashing on his screen, or "new message: John." A text from Molly, text from Mycroft, missed call from Lestrade. Nothing from John, again.

He tossed his mobile to the other end of the couch, taking a drag and running a hand through the mess that was his hair. It hadn't been touched in days. He decided to shower when he woke up. For the moment, he pulled the sleeve down on his robe and finished his cigarette in another few big hits. Then Sherlock shut off the music and lamp and shuffled off to his room, falling into his bed. He eventually fell asleep with tears still silently creeping down his pale face and soaking into his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up with a groggy yawn, sunlight streaming in through the open window. He turned to give his new wife a kiss but she was already up and out of bed, probably making breakfast. He smiled and just lay there comfortably for awhile. He twisted the band on his left hand, and for the first time in a long time he was happy.

...Well, mostly happy. Part of him missed waking in 221B and being in the kitchen making tea in time for Sherlock to be shuffling out of his room and joining John in the kitchen. That was his favorite time of day because it was at that time that Sherlock, in his opinion, was most attractive: curls wild from tossing and turning in his sleep, morning wood obvious under the sheet that served as his clothing until he got dressed after breakfast, gorgeous eyes still hazy with sleepiness... he just seemed more human and more natural when he first woke up than the machine he tended to turn into once his suit was put on. He was always beautiful. He was just more so when he was naked, wrapped in a sheet, with a large stiffy and wild bedhead that the doctor would give anything to get his hands on, something he actually fantasized about quite often.

John had been in love with Sherlock since his first week sharing 221B with the clever detective. As wrong as it seemed to him, as many times as he insisted he wasn't gay and was only half right, he grew used to the idea. Whenever John would touch himself all alone in his bed at night, he would pretend that it was his flat mate. He would have wet dreams of him that would wake him in the middle of the night or in the wee hours of the morning and leave him with an erection that grew increasingly uncomfortable until he got himself off as quietly as he could. But he never told Sherlock. He never even told him about his feelings. He knew that someone as distant as Sherlock Holmes wouldn't possibly know how to love like John loved him, or want like John wanted him. So John pined in silence until he met Mary, and even then- more than once- during sex with her Sherlock's name almost slipped out of his mouth.

Between Mary and work John hadn't been able to pop in on Sherlock since before the wedding. And, he had to admit, because he still loved Sherlock and had a hard time with the thought of facing him with a wedding band on his finger. He had already come close to asking Sherlock to marry him instead once when they were choosing colors and Mary was dress shopping. But that was his best friend, he had to see him. He missed the infuriating detective, with everything in him. With a stretch, John decided to go by 221B Baker Street right that morning. He rolled out of bed with a smile, practically bouncing over to his closet. He flipped through until he found the jumper that Sherlock liked and best jeans. John brushed his teeth, shaved, put on deoderant, and was down in the kitchen before his watch beeped noon. Mary was still nowhere to be found, but there was a note on the counter:

_Mr. Watson,_   
_Went out with Louise for lunch and a movie, be back later!_   
_XOXO_   
_Mrs. Watson_

John smiled a little while scarfing down his bagel. While has loved Sherlock, he did really love his wife. He set the note back down then grabbed his shoes from beside the door and sat down to put them on hurriedly. He then rushed out the door to hail a cab, Sherlock striding through his mind the entire ride to 221B Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

Beethoven was playing loudly from the flat when John walked through the door downstairs. Sherlock was definitely home. He smiled and began to climb up the stairs. He was excited to see his utter cock of a best friend. He would have to be sure to make more time for him from then on. Suddenly he paused with his hand on the doorknob, though. God knew what he was about to walk into. He waited for the sound of him shooting the wall, or practising his harpooning, but all that he continued to hear was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It seemed safe. So John walked in.

"Sherlock, I hope you're dece-" John froze. Sherlock lay on the couch, in his usual trousers and dress shirt...

with a needle in his pale arm, the syringe now empty. John just stared at the thing protruding from his vein, then at the silver spoon and bunsen burner sitting on the table beside him.

"Sherlock," John breathed out. He wanted to tear the damn thing out of his arm, but he couldn't without potential damage. Sherlock bolted upright, hurriedly pulling it out and dropping it in the trash bin, resulting in a clink noise. There were more syringes in it.

"John." There was a mix of horror and joy on his angular face. John was still frozen, but the rage and disappointment was rising. He shut the door behind him, unable to move his feet.

"Sherlock," he repeated numbly. Sherlock stood shakily. Good God, he looked like he was made of just skin and bones. His shirt and pants were loose and his belt was pulled tighter than it had ever been. Then the rage hit him. "Sherlock Holmes, you clotpole, what the hell do you think you're doing?!!"

"John, please ca-"

"Calm down?!" Sherlock flinched like every word was a punch to the stomach. "I walk in for the first time in two months-"

"Yes, two months, John! I haven't seen you in two months. Not a text message, not a call, nothing for two m-" 

"I was busy! I have a wife, and a job, I am a busy man! I finally get a day off and I walk in and you're shooting up!" 

"WHAT do you expect of me, John?!" Sherlock exploded, tears welling up in his chameleon eyes. "I have been alone without my best friend for TWO MONTHS! I was lonely and depressed before you came alone and saved me, I have been even worse since you left me! Did you really think that I would be okay? Did you really think I wouldn't try to find something to fill the space you left?!"

"I expected you to keep solving cases and make do and busy yourself! I EXPECTED BETTER OUT OF THE BEST MAN I KNOW!" John shouted back, also tearing up. Sherlock grabbed his chest like he was in pain, but refused to back down. Concern started worming its way through John at the odd action.

"Always you expect too much of me, John. I am not as great a person as you always seem to believe me to be!" His face contorted in pain underneath the film of tears now shining on it. John forgot his anger for a moment. He had seen Sherlock tear up before, on rare occasion, but he'd only ever seen him show pain when it was excruciating. 

"Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked. Sherlock clutched at his chest but he wasn't done yet.

"No, I am not okay! I have not been okay since before the roof of St. Bart's! I loved you, John Watson. I loved you and I jumped for you and I spent two years being beaten and tortured to keep you safe because I couldn't function if anything was to happen to you." He pounded on his fragile looking chest for a moment before continuing, John at a loss for words anyways. "I came back for you to tell you everything and to try to win you and instead I return to find you engaged. So what do I do? I help you with your wedding because that's what made you happy and your happiness and wellbeing are my only concerns because as it turns out, I have loved you from day one, John!" Then he collapsed on the couch, slamming his chest.

"Sherlock," John muttered. He didn't even know what to say.

"John," Sherlock croaked out. "John, help me." He unfroze and rushed over to his detective. "John, this isn't an overdose, I've experienced them before, I don't know what this is."

"Alright, just try to calm down, I'm calling for an ambulance," he told him, already on the phone and on autopilot, his focus on Sherlock. He blankly gave them the address and hung up. "They'll be here soon, Sherlock, just stay with me and keep breathing." John patted his wet face as his eyes started drifting shut. "Stay with me! Sherlock Holmes, you talk to me. Anything, just keep talking." Sherlock's eyes met his. They were wide with fear.

"John, what is this?" he rasped.

"I don't know, Sherlock, but keep talking, focus on me. We're going to save you. You'll be okay." Sherlock grabbed John's jumper and pulled him closer.

"John," he said. "John, tell me something. Just one thing. Please." John nodded, fighting back panic. "John Watson, do you love me?" John choked back a sob.

"Yes. God help me, yes, I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I loved you all along. I wanted to marry you before I ever wanted to marry Mary, but I didn't think you would feel the same," he answered, holding Sherlock's face in his hands. His best friend smiled, obviously struggling to keep his drooping eyes open.

"John, I have one last thing to ask of you-" John cut him off.

"Sherlock, you'll be fine." John wasn't sure who he was trying to convince more, Sherlock or himself.

"I may not be, though, John," he argued. "This may be the only chance I ever get."

"For what?" he asked. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Kiss me, John." Tears were still running down his pleading face. "Please, if I die I want to die happy. And if I live, then I can go on alone with the memory to keep me company. Please." John nodded and leaned closer to the scared man. His lips connected to Sherlock's, disconnected, then reconnected fully. Sherlock's tongue nudged at John's lips after a handful of moments, which he parted gladly. Their tongues slid against each other for a long minute until Sherlock drew back, his forehead on John's and his lips still barely touching the doctor's.

"Keep fighting through this and I'll kiss you again in your hospital bed," John muttered. Sherlock chuckled weakly. 

"Promise?"

"Promise." John brushed a kiss on the detective's silky mouth then on his temple and on the top of his head where his curls were the curliest. He held him and murmured comfort until the medics stormed in and took Sherlock out on a gurney. In a stroke of luck, John was allowed to ride with them to the hospital. He climbed in and Sherlock immediately clung to his hand in a vice grip. He was humming the song he had played for the wedding while John answered the medics.

"Has he taken any drugs?"

"Heroin. But this isn't an overdose, even he told me that this isn't like any overdose he's had."

"It doesn't seem like an overdose to me either," commented the medic that was inspecting Sherlock.

"Haven't you been reading the news? Twisted people have been lacing drugs- heroin especially- with poison. Cocktails of death, they are," the medic giving Sherlock an injection of sorts told John. John knew the fellow from the ER. 

John was paralyzed in fear. He could still feel the tears on his face while he was squeezing Sherlock's hand with one hand and stroking his curls with the other. Sherlock was still humming the song and staring at John. As they neared the hospital, Sherlock finished the song and smiled sadly.

"That was supposed to be for OUR wedding, John," he murmured just loud enough for John to hear him. John began crying harder. The heart monitor flatlined as Sherlock's grip loosened.

"Sherlock?" John shook his hand. The medic he knew was trying to revive him, giving up only long after it was obvious that his effort was futile. Sherlock Holmes lay dead with a smile on his face and his eyes on John Watson. His John Watson.


End file.
